The dungeons were quiet, lit only by the soft green glow that shimmered across the stone walls. Everyone else had long gone to bed, but Blaise Zabini was still there, leaning back on the couch, one arm draped lazily across the backrest, the other holding a book he clearly wasn’t reading.

You’d stayed behind too, pretending to focus on your parchment, though the quill had stopped moving ages ago. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, it never was. It just hung there, heavy and slow, like neither of you wanted to disturb it.

When you finally glanced up, Blaise’s eyes were already on you, sharp, curious, that faint, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not studying,” he said quietly, voice smooth, teasing.

“Neither are you.”

He chuckled under his breath, closing the book and setting it aside. The sound echoed softly through the common room. “Touché.”

There was something magnetic about him in these moments — the calm, the way he seemed to see through everyone without ever saying much. The flicker of the fire caught in his eyes, and for a second, he looked less like the untouchable Slytherin everyone whispered about, and more like someone who stayed up too late thinking about things he’d never admit.